


Tiny Burn Marks on My Skin

by Sarcastic_Cupcake



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, I'm kidding there is no comfort, Loneliness, References to Depression, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcastic_Cupcake/pseuds/Sarcastic_Cupcake
Summary: It’s too far to walk, too much effort to give up and so I sit here, waiting. Waiting to die, waiting for another adult, another dance of “oh, I’m fine, just tired, I’d much rather be home sleeping right now”, waiting for my autopilot to kick in and give me some measure, at least, of rest. God, I’m so tired.





	Tiny Burn Marks on My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Squalloscope's bloodbaths for birds (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXfDDWj2E48).

I could start walking and just never stop. Just turn around and disappear. I doubt anyone would notice if I tried hard enough to be invisible, they hardly notice me even when I’m not. Or I could just turn a few corners and get myself thoroughly lost and then just climb. There are stairs everywhere, if you look for them hard enough, and I crane my neck up for a moment to see the buildings around me. Honestly, for once, I wouldn’t mind climbing a thousand flights of stairs in this stupid dress. Not for this.

It’s too far to walk, too much effort to give up and so I sit here, waiting. Waiting to die, waiting for another adult, another dance of “oh, I’m fine, just tired, I’d much rather be home sleeping right now”, waiting for my autopilot to kick in and give me some measure, at least, of rest. God, I’m so tired.

And then it happens. “Are you all right?” and I look up even though I know your voice. I know your voice and I trust you, and I think maybe I might tell you the truth because I don’t lie to people I trust.

“I’m all right, I guess...” but a cynical tilt to my head and twist to my mouth show that I’m very distinctly on the less all-right side of all right. I open my mouth because I want to explain, to have someone else understand, at least, and my words flee like the butterflies in my stomach given form. What can I say? _I was seriously considering jumping off of one of these buildings but I think that might just be the depression talking? I’m pretty sure my entire friend group hates me for reasons currently unknown to me? I just really want a hug?_ None of these are things that our friendship is qualified for; I don’t want to drive us any further apart. And so we talk. Small talk, light talk, teasing talk, because this is what I have trained myself to do, but I can tell that you’re uncomfortable anyway. My fault, probably. I’m not convincing enough. But you leave eventually, and that’s okay because at least I’m not making you unhappy.

This time, I’m tilting my head back as though the sheer force of gravity could push my tears away. I blew it, I know. There are so many other things I could have said, should have said, but I didn’t because I have trained myself to play this role. When did I get to be so good at acting, at lying?

We keep making awkward split-second eye contact, even though I’m not trying to look over at you. I’m just people-watching, waiting numb to leave (does that make me a numbwaiter?). I’ve gotten good at that too. It’s interesting to see the fluid dynamics of people when they relax with their friends, when they pretend nobody’s really watching. But you keep seeing me and I can’t tell if you’re trying to tell me something or just reassure yourself that you made the right call. When did I learn to care so much?

Leaving, finally. I stare vacant out the window, letting the lights of the city blur into a streak of accusation. I’m too tired to fight against it, but things happen and I’m sitting crowded against you, inexplicably. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the brightness and lights around us, of the amount of space I take up, of the tightness in my chest that I’ve noticed only vaguely until this. Even now, though, I am separate; I don’t belong here, I never did. And so I sit, waiting to go home, waiting for tomorrow, waiting for the rest of my life to trickle past.


End file.
